


And Where You Are Buried

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was tasked with something," Porthos says. (coda fic to 2x10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Where You Are Buried

**Author's Note:**

> I felt it was necessary to put both pairings in the tag, although annamis is more heavily referenced in this for obvious reasons, there are blink-and-you'll-miss-it references to portamis. There's nothing explicit on either case, however, as it is a Porthos & Anne interaction.

The day after her husband’s declaration to go to war against Spain is bright, sunny, warm. She still feels rattled, still spends most of her moments with Constance. It feels a foolish thing and yet at the same time she cannot help but feel it could disappear at any moment – this relative peace. Turning corners, entering rooms – it is easier if Constance is beside her. 

This morning, though, the musketeers are in the palace. Some of them, at least. Treville, now War Minister, discusses with her husband about finer points that her husband deems unsuitable for her to hear, and so she walks the garden with Constance on her arm. It helps, at least. Constance keeps casting looks towards d’Artagnan, who makes no secret of watching her back. 

“Would you like to walk with him?” she asks and Constance gives her a small, grateful smile, seeing it for the permission it is. 

Anne breathes out and seats herself at one of the little benches opened up on the walkway. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Treville and Louis in intense conversation. 

She does not startle when a shadow falls over her but when she looks up, she realizes her shoulders have tensed – only to relax when she recognizes Porthos. He bows to her and she smiles, standing. 

“Good afternoon,” she greets, her voice even and gentle as always. 

“Your Majesty,” Porthos greets. 

She does not know him well, but she can see there is a tenseness to the corners of his eyes – a quiet unhappiness. She cannot blame him. After all that has happened – and after hearing from Constance of Aramis’ departure, well—

She breathes out and smiles, and finds that it is genuine. 

“Would you walk with me?” she asks, and steps forward, knowing that he will follow. He does. 

They do not stroll far – and she does not move too close. Her husband is not looking this way, but considering the last few days, she is cautious. She watches d’Artagnan and Constance walk together, hand in hand, circling around the fountain and smiling at each other like there is nothing else in this entire world but their own happiness. 

“There is something on your mind,” Anne says after a long moment of silence. She can sense that much. 

She hears Porthos breathe out, sees his shoulders relax. 

“I was tasked with something,” Porthos says after a moment. 

“Which is?” Anne prompts, looking up at him.

Porthos is still for a moment and Anne stops walking beside him. She looks up at him, polite but curious despite herself. Porthos breathes and then he draws out something from his pocket. 

He looks pained, she can see the way his eyes pinch, the way he lowers his chin down, and then he says, “From a very loyal subject… His wish was to gift it to the dauphin, Your Majesty.” 

He hasn’t opened his hand yet but Anne’s breath escapes her because she _knows_ , she knows what it is – and when Porthos opens his hand, palm up, and offers the rosary to her, the cross she’d gifted to Aramis, it takes all her restraint not to let out a small, mourning little sound. She didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to him. And yet, here—

She doesn’t know what to say. Her hands shake at her sides before she forces herself to go still. In this, she can be strong. In all things, she must be strong. 

“… The dauphin is…” She blinks once, takes a moment to compose herself, before she reaches out and takes the rosary from Porthos’ hand. “My son is quite fortunate to have such loyal subjects.” 

She’s quiet and he says nothing.

“I hope that… someday, my son might be able to meet his loyal musketeers,” she says. 

Porthos doesn’t smile, but there’s a softness to his face – she does not know him well, but she can imagine that he is one predisposed to happiness, one who can smile and laugh easily. Someone whose face suits a smile far more than the grimness she sees now. 

But he nods and says, voice quiet and pained, “Yes.” 

She smiles. Then she whispers, “Thank you, Porthos.” 

Porthos glances around, and then offers her a tentative smile in turn. She finds herself returning it – and it makes her heart feel a little less heavy. She ducks her head as she dies the rosary around her neck – for safe keeping, until it can be gifted to her son. Their son. 

The moment passes, however, as it seems that the conversations on war have passed. 

“What are you speaking about over there?” her husband asks as he approaches with Treville. 

Anne breathes in and speaks before Porthos can, smiling at him. “Monsieur Porthos was simply remarking on how stately you appear today, Sire.”

Easily pacified, Louis merely smiles and looks to Treville with great satisfaction. “It’s true, wartime does me well, doesn’t it?”

“Of course,” Treville agrees, but he’s giving Porthos a long look. Porthos meets his gaze evenly.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
